Dinner last night with Earthgirl's bestfriend and husband, very decent and Kind people, rote Democrats and supportive Obamabots. I went to dinner promising myself I'd not initiate a political discussion nor much more than nod and uh-huh if it was introduced by others: I knew that if an awkward silence fell on the conversation I could always reintroduce some discussion re: our respective daughters' freshman second semesters in college that would fill fifteen minutes. I kept the promise to myself, but when one of them said, I think it's important that Obama keep Iran from getting the Bomb even if it means war, I thought about saying, why shouldn't Iran have a nuclear weapon, it's surrounded on 360 degrees by nuclear weapons, American and surrogates, Iran's desire for a nuclear weapon beyond reasonable: by the same logic that those who have the weapons don't want Iran to have the weapons it would be lunacy for Iran to not want the weapons to discourage those who have the weapons from using them against Iran, and then I.... had another bite of excellent salmon nigiri. Other topics arose; more sushi was eaten.
Then I woke up this morning and read the motherfucking Park Police raided McPherson just before sunrise. In two hours I take Stanley and Rose to the vets to get their butts shaved and hopefully get advice on a better diet than Iams or Science Diet (that will no doubt cost double) that doesn't give them the runs that sticks to their hair. And then I'm going to go get lost in the woods.
Links tomorrow, or not. Remember, this is Blogroll Amnesty Weekend. Please scroll the blogrolls and click on something you've never read before, and be Kind yourself. Have another Szymborksa poem.
THE END AND THE BEGINNING
Wislawa Szymborksa
Translated by Joanna Trzeciak
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.
From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass which has overgrown
reasons and causes,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
